346 ASHGILL; OR, THE LIFE 



pensates for the trouble and inconvenience of quitting 

 one's bed some half a day in advance of the customary 

 hour. Whether Morpheus had been courted too early 

 the previous night, or rather morning, or whether it 

 was the seductive charm of host Alec Guild's nectar, 

 or the genial company of a few trainers that caused us 

 to break the laws of health, if not of temperance, need 

 not be dwelt on. Recollections, somewhat confused, 

 arise of the previous night's discussion about horses 

 and the training of horses. A latter-day trainer a red- 

 hot Radical of trainers no less a personage than John 

 Henry Shepherd, we dimly recollect argued that if the 

 old-fashioned trainers were to groom their horses better 

 and give them less work, they would win more races. 

 Of all men in the world, trainers are conservative and 

 jealous of their professional knowledge. In the heat 

 of the discussion up rose old Tom Green, of stately 

 proportions, resenting with thundering voice so gross a 

 libel from so unexpected a source. Will Sanderson 

 was appealed to. " Is it not a reflection on our abilities 

 that such aspersions should be made by John Henry I " 

 ' Ton my word," chimed in Paddy Drislane, " it is, 

 it is." William I'Anson, majestic, towering, and con- 

 ciliatory, declined to arbitrate in so heated a debate, 

 which waxed hotter and hotter. When we returned 

 in the "wee sma' hours ayont the twal," the strident 

 voice of Tom Green was uttering strong language of 

 metaphor, in which it was laid down as a condition 

 " that the heavens might fall or hell might open, John 

 Henry Shepherd," who was the author of the attack 

 on Tom's skill as a trainer, ere the wound to his pride 

 would be healed. The heavens did not descend, nor 

 were the gloomy portals of Hades opened, when the 

 morning of the gallops at Gosforth found those worthies 



